Is There A Traitor In The House?
by Pippi1.0
Summary: This is a post-war oneshot is based off the episode "Is There A Traitor In The House?", and explores the ramifications of Newkirk's speech, when he told his countrymen to surrender. We know he's not a traitor, and the gang knows he's not a traitor, and London Intelligence knows he's not a traitor…but what about everybody else?


Greetings, HH fans! This is my first excursion into fanfiction, but I can tell you, I've been enjoying all your stories for years and I'm delighted to be here amongst you! I would be honored for you to read this short snippet and perhaps let me know what you think.

This is a post-war story is based off the episode "Is There A Traitor In The House?", and explores the ramifications of Newkirk's speech, where he told his countrymen to surrender. _We_ know he's not a traitor, and _the gang_ knows he's not a traitor, and _London Intelligence_ knows he's not a traitor…but what about everybody else?

The rain pitter-pattered against his umbrella, keeping him mostly protected from the elements as he walked through London's cobble streets, doing his best to dodge the worst of the puddles to save his trousers.

He was surprised at the damage around him; it seemed there was hardly a street for miles around that was untouched by the ugly arm of war. But the war had been over for nearly six months, and the rebuilding was well underway. The British people were resilient and strong, and rebuild, they would.

He could hardly believe that the war was truly over. The past months had been a whirlwind of parties and briefings and hugs and kisses and storytelling. There were things that he had forgotten about during his stint as a POW, like the taste of his favorite foods, the ability to talk with people without having to have somebody watch the door, choosing his own bedtime, not constantly being at somebody else's beck-and-call, and the idea that he could have real, honest money to be spent however he chose.

All the parties and the telling, and then retelling, of (carefully censored) stories was enjoyable for a while, but eventually, he needed some space. Not only that, but he'd felt disjointed and uneasy ever since being home, like there was an itch he couldn't reach, and he figured some time with a friend who might also have the same itch could help him figure a few things out.

And so, now here he was, walking alone through the rainy streets of London, looking at the destruction, mourning for what was broken by war, but glad that the damage was being rebuilt.

As he approached his destination and crossed the threshold, he took a moment to fold his umbrella and shake out the clingy droplets. Upbeat music was playing and men were scattered throughout the room, smoking and drinking and hustling pool. He walked up to the bar and claimed a barstool.

A bartender appeared in front of him. He was large and burly, with muscular arms and chiseled features. His hair was an odd length, as if in the process of being grown out after recently being short, leading the patron to the likely conclusion that the man before him had recently left the armed forces.

"What can I get you?"

"Just a beer, please." A moment later the frothy drink was placed in front of him.

"You're a Yank."

"I am."

The bartender grinned. "A long way from 'ome, aren't you, mate?"

"I was hoping to meet someone. I've heard he comes here quite often."

"What's 'is name? I probably know 'im."

"Peter Newkirk."

The smile fell off the bartender's face instantly. "What do you want with Newkirk?"

"You know him." It wasn't a question.

The bartender's face darkened. "Everybody 'round 'ere knows 'im. What's your business with 'im?"

He took a careful sip of his beer, aware that the atmosphere had changed. "Just wanted to say hello. We're friends."

"That filthy sod 'as no friends."

"He's got one." His tone left no room for debate.

The bartender leaned in close and his lip curled into an ugly snarl. "Then I'll tell you the same thing I told 'im: come 'round 'ere again, and I'll smash your skull and nobody in 'ere will stop me."

He locked eyes with the bartender, acutely aware that the music had stopped and everyone in the room was tuned in to their conversation. His eyes held a challenge of their own, and a blatant refusal to back down. "Where can I find him?"

Before the bartender could respond, the faint sound of a scuffle reached their ears. The bartender sneered and jerked his head towards the sound.

The beer forgotten, he slowly exited the bar, feeling the eyes of every man searing into his back as he left. Outside, rain had stopped for the time being, which was good because he had forgotten his umbrella in the bar, and the sound of struggle was more defined. He quickly made his way towards it.

When he rounded the corner he saw two men holding another man immobile between them, while a fourth man dished out the punishment of what appeared to be a severe beating. If the helpless man was not unconscious, he appeared close to that state.

He drew from inside his jacket a small pistol and fired it once into the air. The men whirled towards him, and the beaten man sagged in the grip of his abusers.

"The next one to touch him gets a bullet between the eyes."

"Look 'ere, this bloke is a traitor—a filthy pig. 'E deserves worse than this! You don't know 'im like we do."

"Drop him right now or so help me I'll send you to the undertaker so full of holes you won't cast a shadow."

The men dropped their prize onto the wet street, and after a short hesitation—no doubt weighing the pros and cons of charging the crazy American before he made good on his threat—decided it wasn't worth the risk and slipped away into the darkness.

He hastened to the injured man's side, ever mindful that the men might return for a sneak attack. He grabbed the Englishman's shoulder and gently turned him onto his back. It was Newkirk, all right, battered and bloody and more than a little disheveled, but it was definitely him.

"Newkirk!" He gave his shoulder a shake. The injured man slowly opened his eyes and blinked several times. He frowned in confusion.

"Gov'nor?" His voice was a harsh rasp.

Hogan breathed a sigh of relief. "Anything broken?"

Newkirk moved and his face contorted in pain. "Maybe me ribs." He blinked at Hogan. "There's three of you."

"That's swell. C'mon, Newkirk, let's get you up off the wet street."

"What're you—" abruptly, his question cut off with a groan and he folded in on himself, wrapping his arms tight around his middle. "Blimey."

Hogan did not like the situation. They were vulnerable out here in the open, and Newkirk obviously had no great number of friends these days. "Come on," he insisted gently, helping the other man to stand. Newkirk began to sag, and Hogan quickly pulled Newkirk's arm over his shoulders and wrapped his arm around Newkirk's waist, shifting to take as much of his friend's weight as he could. The Englishman groaned, and Hogan knew he was probably putting painful pressure on injured ribs, but it could not be helped if the man was going to remain upright.

"Is your place around here, Newkirk?"

"Round the corner…to the left…not far…"

"C'mon, Peter, stay with me, I don't know where I'm going and I can't carry you." However, Hogan noticed with dismay that he probably could carry Newkirk; the man was thinner than he had been in Stalag 13. When they arrived to Newkirk's place Hogan was going to demand some answers.

But apparently Hogan wasn't the only one who wanted answers.

"What're you…" Newkirk stumbled and Hogan adjusted his grip. "…what're you _doin'_ 'ere?"

"I was in the neighborhood."

Newkirk coughed. "Lying…doesn't become you."

Hogan sighed. "Let's just say post-war wasn't all that I thought it'd be."

Newkirk barked out a laugh, followed by a loud moan as something inside was jostled. "That…seems to be…the epidemic…don't it?" His voice was getting weaker.

"No more talking, Newkirk. Save it for when we get to your place." Newkirk remained silent, for once obeying without question, for which Hogan was thankful.

They stumbled like drunken men, and Newkirk eventually pointed to one of the buildings crammed in the midst of the others on the street.

"Third floor," he murmured.

Hogan sighed. "That figures." Getting up the stairs was more difficult than the rest of the journey had been, with Hogan practically dragging the fading Englishman up the last few steps. As Newkirk pulled out a key and struggled to get the door unlocked, something in Hogan's mind rebelled at the sight of his favorite pickpocket actually using a key for entry, and for the life of him, he was unable to remember ever seeing Newkirk use one before. They stumbled through the doorway, and Hogan immediately deposited Newkirk's weight onto the small bed.

He stepped back and looked around. The apartment consisted of one small room and a tiny bathroom. There was a light bulb hanging from the ceiling, and Hogan pulled the string, bathing the room in yellow light. The walls were stained like old parchment and there was a stale smell in the air. There was a small, makeshift kitchen on the far wall of the room, which housed a coffee pot, a copper kettle, and a few dishes. Atop the dresser were three framed photographs, the first one was of a woman Hogan recognized to be Newkirk's sister Mavis with a man he didn't recognize, the second one was of Newkirk, Kinch, and Carter playing cards at the wooden table in the Stalag 13 barracks, and the last one Hogan recognized immediately as the one of the group hugging each other and celebrating on the day the Sherman tanks rolled through the gates and liberated the camp. Hogan's gaze traveled back to the bed, which was small and lumpy, and the musty blanket on top looked like it would provide little warmth.

Hogan's eyes met Newkirk's, and the Englishman smirked. "Fancy, innit?" In the light, Newkirk looked worse than before. He was soaked from head to toe, his left eye was completely swollen shut, blood trickled from a gash on his temple and he still carefully guarded his ribs.

"You live here?" Hogan tried to keep the disbelief out of his voice. He went into the bathroom and came back with a small towel soaked in cool water. He handed it to Newkirk who began to dab at his face.

"It's not so bad. Kinda feels like bein' back in the barracks, minus the roll calls and sabotage."

"Reminds me more of the cooler."

"I was lucky to get it."

Hogan found a chair and brought it next to the foot of the bed. "You have money; four years in a POW camp it was building up. Not even you could lose it all in just six months."

The Englishman sighed and stared at the towel. "It's not because of money. Not many people want to do business with a traitor. Lucky for me, the landlady 'ere is stone deaf. She gets behind on the gossip."

"What are you talking about? You're no traitor. Why did those men call you that?"

Newkirk leaned back down on the bed, draping his left arm over his eyes and his right arm encircling his midsection. "In their eyes, I am a traitor. I told them all to lay down their guns and surrender to the Nazis. I don't blame them for bein' angry."

A memory flashed in Hogan's mind. "Is this about that speech you made for Berlin Betty? The one that allowed London to bomb that ball bearing plant? You were following _my_ orders!"

"Colonel, I distinctly remember you tellin' me the choice was mine."

Hogan didn't bother reminding Newkirk that he had been promoted to general. Old habits die hard. "It was a mission! That broadcast saved lives!"

"Gov'nor, they don't know that it was for Allied Intelligence! All they know is what they 'eard: Peter Newkirk selling out to the Nazis, telling 'is comrades to roll over and give up. I'd be surprised if they _didn't_ want me 'ead on a platter."

"So tell them the truth!"

Newkirk lifted his arm off his eyes enough to peek at Hogan. "Become a traitor twice in the same war? No bloody way." He covered his eyes again.

"You're not—" Hogan broke off his angry outburst. He sighed. Newkirk was right; all the details about the operation at Stalag 13 were still classified top secret. His eyes tracked again around the small dingy room, and he felt a deep sadness. Newkirk was a hero in every sense of the word. All his men were heroes. They had willingly risked their lives every day and voluntarily stayed in a rat hole of a prison camp for four years working hard to end the war and save Allied lives…and this was the thanks they got? Getting beaten up in the streets, shunned by their own people, called traitor every day?

Hogan remembered how it felt to have General Barton call him a traitor to his face. * Even though he knew Barton was wrong, it didn't make any difference. Knowing that his own countryman thought he was a sell-out had made him feel physically ill. Newkirk had taken it upon himself to remedy the matter that time, defiantly telling confidential information about their operation to General Barton at the first opportunity, which was grounds for a firing squad.

And now the same thing was happening to Newkirk every day. How did he live with it?

"You're not a traitor, Peter," Hogan said softly. "Many of the people walking these streets owe their lives to you." He looked up to see Newkirk watching him with a steady eye. "You, Carter, LeBeau, Kinch…you're all heroes. I would decorate all of you if I could."

"Blimey, Gov'nor, I'm not complainin'! I knew what I was doin' when I made that ruddy speech. I've lived in London all me life; I know these people. I _knew_ what it would mean for me after the war. What's done is done, and I'd do it again." Newkirk grinned a little. "Besides, I still 'ave that medal I stole off that geezer in the Hofbrau."** He lifted his head and looked around. "Not sure where I put it, mind you, but it's around 'ere somewhere." He laughed suddenly. "Imagine the rumors that would fly if I actually started wearing it! A British traitor wearing a German medal! Cor, blimey, I wouldn't last a week."

"Come to America," Hogan found himself blurting out before he really realized what he was saying.

Newkirk raised himself up on his elbow with a hard wince. "Still givin' orders, there, _General_?" He winked. "Thought I'd forgotten, didn't you?"

"It wasn't an order. You're not in the RAF anymore; you don't have to march to anybody's drum but your own."

"I'm a little bit curious 'ow you know that."

Hogan pretended not to have heard. "But you _should_ come to America. Nobody there has heard the broadcast, the Depression is over, and our relations with England have never been better. Things would be very different for you."

Newkirk sighed. "Ah, Colonel, I can't just turn tail and run away. I would really look guilty then. Besides that, England is me 'ome. I was raised 'ere. I fought for England. I've missed it."

"I know, Newkirk." Although LeBeau had been by far the most vocal one in their group about how much he loved and missed his country, Hogan had often suspected that Newkirk's desire to be home was just as great as the Frenchman's. Which made Newkirk's welcome home all the worse.

The two men were quiet for a few moments, each lost in his own thoughts. Hogan broke the silence first.

"Why don't you come for a visit?" Newkirk raised his head, listening. "I mean, it wouldn't be running away, just coming to see your favorite _colonel_." Newkirk smiled. "You could stay in the States for as long as you like while tempers cooled off here. Maybe even stop by North Dakota and see what Carter is up to these days."

"Impossible to guess," Newkirk remarked dryly.

"I think Kinch is back in Detroit; you could look him up, too. Stop in France on your way back and see LeBeau."

Newkirk cleared his throat. "Colonel, don't you think that it's a little odd that…well…we were livin' literally on top of each other for four years, and now that we 'ave our space, we want to be livin' on top of each other again?" Newkirk's question was almost a plea, as if he was desperately hoping that he was not the only one of the group who felt that way.

But Hogan knew he wasn't the only one. Something had happened to them in the Stalag. They spent so much time putting their lives in each other's hands that the closeness of their bond was to an extreme degree. Living away from the others felt wrong, as if he was abandoning them with no one to watch their backs, even though intellectually he knew they no longer needed it. They felt the safest in each other's company, regardless if they were strapping dynamite to bridge posts or sipping champagne at a "welcome home" cocktail party. He was sure Newkirk felt the same way, and had to imagine the others did, too, at least somewhat.

For some reason, without each other around, they were not able to fully _relax_.

"We went through a lot together," Hogan said finally. "That's not something that goes away because the barbed wire is gone." Newkirk looked pensive. "Peter, please come to America." He didn't know what he was going to do if Newkirk refused. Hogan knew he could not abandon his man (and, military or not, they would always be his men) to a life filled with beatings and slander. Absolutely not.

For several moments, Newkirk was silent as he pondered the offer. Then he looked up. "All right," he said with a nod. "I'll come for a visit." Hogan grinned wide. "A visit!" Newkirk said firmly, jabbing a finger in Hogan's direction. "An…" he cleared his throat. "…extended visit."

Hogan nodded, still grinning. "Wouldn't have it any other way. Now, let's get you packed. You can stay at my hotel until we leave." The Englishman immediately began to protest, but Hogan was adamant. "I never abandoned you to the cooler before, and I'm not about to start now. Seriously, Newkirk, how do you stand it? It's freezing in here."

Newkirk shrugged. "Long underwear."

"Jolly joker."

"Oh, blimey, now it _really_ feels like the barracks!"

And as Hogan began to get Newkirk's things together, he glanced back at the Englishman, who had laid back down and closed his eyes. The lines of tension and stress around his eyes and mouth were erased, and his posture was loose and comfortable.

Newkirk was completely relaxed.

And Hogan realized with some surprise that for the first time in nearly six months, so was he.

End

* The General Swap

** Paint the Luftwaffe Red

So what do you think? Good? Bad? Thirty days in the cooler? I appreciate any and all feedback.


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